


Me, You, The Mountains, And This Shotgun

by zuotian



Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Anal Sex, Bets & Wagers, Cabins, Death, Dialogue Heavy, Gunplay, M/M, Mountains, Object Insertion, Self-Exile, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-17 07:00:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16511525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zuotian/pseuds/zuotian
Summary: After the end of the Canadian-American war, South Park is moored in a strange post-apocalypse. Cartman and Kenny have taken refuge in the mountains outside of town, and waste their days entertaining themselves the only way they know how. But their exile is interrupted at the most inopportune time, by unlikely foes.





	Me, You, The Mountains, And This Shotgun

**Author's Note:**

> ALL CHARACTERS AND EVENTS IN THIS FANFICTION—EVEN THOSE BASED ON A REAL SHOW—ARE ENTIRELY GRATUITOUS. ALL CANONICAL DIALOGUE IS IMPERSONATED ... POORLY. THE FOLLOWING FANFICTION CONTAINS COARSE LANGUAGE AND DUE TO ITS CONTENT IT SHOULD NOT BE READ BY ANYONE.

Cartman lined his sights and pulled the trigger. He was laid out on the ground beneath some underbrush, and his shoulders jerked back with recoil. A flock of blackbirds scattered from the treetops one hillock over where he'd aimed his shot.

 

Kenny scowled beside Cartman, and shook the leaves out of his hair. He was laid on his belly, pressed against Cartman's side, ears ringing.

 

“Did you see that? Coming right for me,” Cartman panted. “Shit! Did you see that?”

 

Kenny squinted away at the far tree Cartman had shot at. “I didn't see anything, man.”

 

“I swear to God I got something.”

 

Kenny rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Do you know what it was?”

 

“A squirrel or something?”

 

“Fuck that, man,” Kenny said. “I only saw birds. Except you scared em all off for me. Douchebag.”

 

Cartman passed Kenny the shotgun.

 

“Fuck you.”

 

“Fuck you!”

 

Kenny laid the gun aside, pulled the collar of his parka down, and brought his hands to his mouth. He made some random fowl calls and waited, but didn't see any activity. He swore, and glared at Cartman, who shrugged.

 

Kenny racked the shotgun. He aimed at the same tree over the hillock but veered down its trunk, sighted a wild rabbit, and pulled the trigger. The rabbit fell with a loud dying squeak and splatter of blood.

 

“Got em,” Kenny said. He lowered the shotgun and sent Cartman a satisfied smirk. “See that?”

 

Cartman wiggled out of the underbrush and sat up. He opened his pack and held a pair of binoculars up to his eyes.

 

“I don't see anything,” Cartman said.

 

Kenny growled and crawled to Cartman. He pointed to a lump in the grass at the base of the tree.

 

“Look right fucking there, man,” Kenny said. “He was coming right at me.”

 

“I don't see shit,” Cartman said. He put the binoculars away in his pack.

 

Kenny stood, slung the shotgun over his shoulder. “You just don't want to admit I'm the better shot, huh,” he said, looking down at Cartman.

 

“This has nothing to do with jealousy,” Cartman said, rising to meet Kenny's accusatory glare. “It's the truth. The sportsmanship of the hunt. I shot the bird, dude. And you didn't get shit.”

 

“You're moronic,” Kenny said. It was a term he'd picked up from Kyle.

 

Cartman's face darkened. “Don't bring my goddamn ex-wife into this.”

 

Kenny affected a look of surprise. “What is it?”

 

“You know goddamn well what it is,” Cartman seethed. “Why the hell else would I be out here?”

 

Kenny shrugged. “It is just me, you, the mountains, and this shotgun.”

 

“And what?”

 

“You could be trying to kill me,” Kenny said.

 

“On my anniversary? Why would I kill you, Kenny, on my anniversary?”

 

“I wouldn't know. It wasn't my idea.”

 

Cartman looked out across the hillock. Kenny smiled, amused with himself.

 

The mountain was frozen in silence, hard ground cracked with frost. Empty save for two men. One in a nylon hunting jacket with a pack on his back, the other in an old orange parka with a shotgun on his shoulder. They knew the game hiding behind the treeline, and the game knew them standing out in the open. For a second, none of them moved.

 

Kenny shivered, remembering the cold, and looked at Cartman. “Let's bag my rabbit and go back to the cabin,” he said.

 

Cartman didn't look away from the tree. “You mean my bird,” he said.

 

“I'll bet it's my rabbit.”

 

Cartman finally turned, considering. “What's the wager?”

 

“The usual.”

 

“Really?”

 

“It's your anniversary,” Kenny said. “The usual, yes, come on. I'll bet.” He lifted a calloused hand knuckled with old, faded tattoos.

 

Cartman reached to shake on it. “Fine.”

 

They released hands, but remained standing and staring at each other in summation.

 

By now they had each given up on their stubble and crow's feet. Physically, Kenny had shriveled with age, while Cartman loosened; psychologically, it was the opposite. Kenny reminded himself at least they weren't yet Jimbo and Ned off the grid – probably dead - in Appalachia.

 

Kenny spat out wisps of gray-blond hair that had flown into his mouth with the breeze. He beckoned for the pack on Cartman's shoulder. “Smokes, man.”

 

Cartman dropped the pack off his shoulder and it thumped to the cold ground.

 

“Trade me,” Cartman said.

 

Kenny pffted. He held the shotgun sling tighter in his hand. “What?”

 

“Trade me now,” Cartman said. “Trade me the shotgun.”

 

“What? I'm not gonna trade you the shotgun, Cartman.”

 

Cartman closed the two strides between them and swung the pack up into Kenny's stomach.

 

Kenny coughed. The shotgun sling fell slack down his arm as he caught the pack against his gut. Cartman wrestled him around, buffing two meaty hands against his shoulders.

 

“Alright, man, alright!” Kenny shouldered Cartman off and dropped the shotgun then stumbled back and bent over his knees to catch his breath.

 

“Do you think this shit is funny Kenny?” Cartman asked.

 

“Not really,” Kenny said. He pulled the pack onto his back. “What the hell is your problem?”

 

“You are the fucking moronic. Do you remember a place called Canada?”

 

Kenny glared. “Cartman -”

 

“Smoke your fucking cigarette!” Cartman by now had retrieved the shotgun.

 

“God Jesus,” Kenny said. He sat on the ground and rifled through Cartman's pack until he found the cigarettes.

 

Cartman continued holding the shotgun, but resumed staring at the tree over the hillock. “But if there's anything I know, I know I learned it from Canada.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Kenny said.

 

The shotgun safety clicked.

 

Kenny looked up and a dark elongated barrel was sitting trained between his eyes.

 

“And I know in Canada we do not let the point man light a cigarette,” Cartman said behind the barrel's other end. “And that is why I asked you to trade.”

 

“It's because you're crazy, man.” Kenny leaned back to strike a match, cigarette hanging from his lips.

 

He shook the match out and puffed on his cigarette. Cartman kept the shotgun right in front of him.

 

“Sit down,” Kenny said. He gently guided the shotgun barrel to the left of his face. “Sit down, Cartman. This isn't Canada.”

 

“Everywhere is Canada you son of a bitch,” Cartman said. Yet he relented, dropping the shotgun across his lap as he sat beside Kenny, and lit a cigarette of his own.

 

They smoked and stared across the hillock in a small moment's peace.

 

“Have you ever seen a gray bear?” Cartman asked.

 

Kenny responded on cue, gaze tightening on the sky. “No, I haven't, man.”

 

“The retarded offspring between a polar bear and a black bear. They prowled the north forests after the ice caps melted. They could tear a Mooseman in half. But not a fucking Cartman!”

 

Cartman scowled at something only he saw, some invisible gray bear. Kenny followed his gaze and watched the empty space.

 

“While the rest of the squad was busy masturbating and relacing their boots, I was the one who shot that damn gray bear and saved all our asses,” Cartman went on. “And what do I get for leading the charge? Divorce papers. And that's why I traded you the shotgun, Kenny. So I can finally shoot myself, right here.”

 

“You didn't shoot no gray bear, man,” Kenny said. “Stan was in your regiment, he told me.”

 

“And you believe that lying, cheating homewrecker fuck over me?”

 

“Kind of.”

 

“Screw you, Kenny.”

 

Kenny laughed, and knew things were alright. “I'm not saying you aren't a war hero. I just don't think you shot that bear, man.”

 

“I am a veteran,” Cartman said. “Respect my authoritah!”

 

Kenny snubbed his cigarette out in the frost. It'd been illegal to do that, but there was no Barbrady in these mountains, and the climate war had already been lost. The Earth was dead already with everybody else.

 

“Anyway,” Kenny said, picking the conversation up like it hadn't been left behind, “we were betting on my rabbit, actually.”

 

“I'm not done,” Cartman said, waving his cigarette around.

 

“Okay, then I'll take the shotgun.”

 

Kenny stood and swiped the shotgun from Cartman's lap, so that he now had both the gun and the pack.

 

Cartman jumped to his feet. The thing about him was he could be pretty active still, if he forgot to be lazy. Kenny remembered him benching two hundred pounds fresh out of bootcamp. That inner soldier animal was still there somewhere; he just needed baited and bailed out.

 

“I'm the fucking point,” Cartman insisted. He lumbered forward angrily.

 

Kenny shuffled back, clutching the shotgun close this time. “Come and get me, bitch,” he sang. His voice reverberated over the hillock they were on, all down the mountain, same as when they were nine and snow still piled up on the ground. “Come fucking get it, Cartman!”

 

“Agggh!”

 

With his crazy ass warrior screech, Cartman lunged and tackled Kenny to the ground. They rolled around on top of each other. Cartman's nylon hunting jacket got slippery with frost; Kenny's parka buffeted dirt. Their legs tangled up as they kicked each other's boots.

 

They rolled down the hillock, landed in a ditch of branches and rocks. They swiped at each other's face with loose fists and open handed slaps.

 

They were sweating and grunting and not talking. Cartman squeezed around Kenny's waist, just as Kenny tried twisting away.

 

Then a bullet shot between them.

 

Time froze. The mountain froze. The two men froze.

 

Their faces were smashed in the dirt. Neither one wanted to look up to investigate the cloying smell of blood in the air.

 

Finally, Cartman picked the shotgun up like it was steaming and tossed it aside. He looked down at his friend, saw the blood trickling down Kenny's face.

 

“Kenny,” Cartman said, and turned Kenny onto his back. “Shit.”

 

Kenny was bleeding profusely from the temple. Cartman shook his shoulders.

 

“Fuck. Kenny!”

 

Kenny blinked.

 

Cartman dragged him up by the armpits, out of the ditch and onto the hillock's side. Then he scrabbled up the embankment to get his pack and returned with a tin first aid kit from his army surplus.

 

“Of course you shoot yourself. Of course!”

 

Cartman ranted himself calm, until his hands were steady. He couldn't stand Kenny's bleary silence, and focused on assessing the bullet wound. First he yanked the parka hood down and raked Kenny's long, gray hair back.

 

“Of course you have to be a fucking hippie,” Cartman said, gently folding the hair behind Kenny's ears. It was the color of dryrot straw. “Of course you can't make anything for me easy, ever.”

 

Cartman rinsed the point of entry with canteen water until he could see the dark puckering hole into Kenny's brain. Except, when he pulled at the wound with his thumbs, nothing gushed open. Small rivulets of blood trailed down from a nasty graze, but Kenny's brain didn't fall out.

 

Cartman fell back on his haunches. “You weren't fucking shot!”

 

Kenny twitched and burbled something.

 

“Fuck you,” Cartman snapped. “Fucking – shit! Shut the fuck up, dude. You weren't shot!”

 

Cartman cleaned the graze with all the antiseptic wipes in the kit, folded a square of gauze onto it, and rolled a bandage around Kenny's head. Cartman knew it wasn't army procedure. He couldn't remember procedure, and didn't know if he ever knew procedure to begin with, but then remembered there were no good soldiers in Canada. “You're a fucking asshole,” he said.

 

Finally Cartman sat down. His hands were bloody in his lap. Kenny was staring at him.

 

Kenny sniffed. He raised his arm and wiped the blood off his mustache with the back of his hand. Then he pulled his parka hood up over his bandaged head and dryrot hair.

 

“I saw my rabbit,” he croaked to Cartman.

 

“What?” Cartman said.

 

“I won the bet, man,” Kenny said.

 

Cartman refused to listen and started repacking his first aid kit. “I can't believe you,” he said. “In fact, I think you should go get reamed by my ex-wife and Stan.”

 

Kenny turned around on his belly and pulled himself up over the side of the hillock.

 

Cartman frowned after him. “Ey – what are you doing? This is not – motherfucker, where are you going?”

 

Kenny's boots disappeared. Cartman dropped his pack, reloaded the shotgun, and draped it over his back before following on foot.

 

He found Kenny sitting against the base of the tree, and watched him.

 

Kenny pulled a knife out from one of his cargo pockets and first used it to lob a lucky foot off. Then he flayed the rabbit. It was already getting stiff. He cut the tough muscle and saved the tender breasts. He cracked the sternum with a surgical jab of the knife handle. He saved the breasts and ribs and flanks and sides. Then he procured a surreptitious bandanna and tied everything up.

 

“Are you fucking crazy,” Cartman asked.

 

Kenny stowed the bandanna in his parka and looked up at him with a self-satisfied smile. “I don't see your bird, man.”

 

Cartman huffed, looking around. Kenny was right. It was just them and the rabbit.

 

“I think it flew off to see the gray bear,” Kenny said.

 

“Can we just go,” Cartman said.

 

Kenny laughed. He made to stand. Cartman didn't help him up.

 

They walked across the hillock, into the forest, back to the cabin in silence. Kenny stumbled a couple paces behind, as Cartman smoked cigarettes with the shotgun on his back.

 

The morning was lifting once they reached the cabin. Two old windows refracted the light over the front steps. Their boots made the wood creak.

 

Cartman fished the keys out of his pack and went through three locks and a deadbolt.

 

Once they were inside Kenny sat on the only bed in the room. He took his boots off and removed the knife and bandanna of meat from his pockets, then disappeared into the small bathroom.

 

Cartman was cleaning the shotgun at the table. Once Kenny shut the bathroom door, Cartman picked the bandanna up from the bed and brought it to the kitchen counter. The bandanna was stained black with rabbit blood. It reminded Cartman of Kenny's blood on his hands, and he promptly washed them.

 

“What's that?” Kenny asked, coming around into view. His hair was wet; freshly showered with collected rainwater they ran through the pipes.

 

Cartman turned the sink faucet off. “Nothing.”

 

Kenny had undone Cartman's makeshift bandage around his head and washed the blood from his hair. A new square of gauze was applied to his wound, held by two bandaids in a cross. He ditched his parka for a clean long shirt, and swapped the cargo pants for jeans.

 

Kenny always had a way of looking good, even if you knew he was a mess. It made Cartman sick. He trudged to the cast iron stove against the wall in the main room and fed logs into its maw, while Kenny started a pot of coffee in the kitchen.

 

They went about their respective tasks in a contemplative silence. Once the fire held steady, Cartman sat on the rug underneath him and stared into the flames.

 

A few minutes later, Kenny's hand fell on his shoulder. Cartman jumped, almost knocked his face against the stove, and twisted around.

 

“Here,” Kenny said before Cartman could yell. He held out a mug of coffee. “You look cold, man.”

 

“Screw off,” Cartman said, and took a drink.

 

“Seriously though,” Kenny said. He didn't move his hand off Cartman's shoulder. “Go lie down. At least change your clothes or something.”

 

Cartman shrugged him away, but got to his feet. He handed the coffee back to Kenny, grabbed a new set of clothes, and went into the bathroom. He showered and redressed under five minutes. The water was always cold now, so there wasn't much of a point in drawing it out. Cartman balled up his dirty clothes and threw them on top of Kenny's in the corner. Then he opened the door and walked to Kenny. Immediately the fire warmed his damp skin. He took his coffee back from Kenny, but didn't sit down on the rug.

 

Kenny laughed under his breath. The sound was almost lost in the crackling flames. He lifted a hand to the hem of Cartman's fresh shirt. It was an old army shirt engineered for the Canadian frontlines, a gray camo pattern printed over a long button up adorned with patches of the American flag, Special Ops ensigns, and Cartman's surname.

 

“This fits you again,” Kenny observed. Cartman was issued the uniform about ten years ago. Kenny flattened his palm against Cartman's hip where a beer gut used to be. Now there was just bone and loose, old skin.

 

“We're eating rabbits and birds,” Cartman said. “I haven't had a cheeseburger in months. What did you expect?”

 

“Too bad aliens took all the cows.”

 

“Maybe they were the superior species,” Cartman said. “I'd rather be a cow.”

 

“Your mother in law is a cow,” Kenny said.

 

“Christ. Why'd you have to bring her up?”

 

“I don't know. It's the truth.”

 

“The truth was Sheila's a bitch. This entire stupid country realized it too late.” Cartman's breath hitched. “Kenny – hey -”

 

“What?” Kenny's hand had trailed down, over Cartman's thigh. “Can we stop talking about Sheila?”

 

“You brought her up,” Cartman said. “What the fuck are you doing?”

 

“Cashing in my dues,” Kenny said, grabbing Cartman's penis through his pants.

 

Cartman mouth twisted, and he looked down at Kenny with insolent arousal. “Stop it.”

 

Kenny leaned back. “Did you piss on her corpse, man? Or not, because she would've, like, been into it?”

 

Cartman cringed. “Shut the hell up.”

 

“Okay,” Kenny pulled Cartman's pants. Cartman was commando underneath as Kenny had predicted. Kenny took his cock into his mouth and moaned around its base.

 

Cartman dropped his coffee mug to the floor, grabbed Kenny by the shoulders, and kneed him in the chest. Kenny choked, coughed, and fell backwards

 

“What the hell?”

 

Cartman tugged his pants back up.

 

Why can't I suck your dick?”

 

“Maybe I'm not in the mood, fucking hound dog,” Cartman said. “Talking about watersports with Sheila.”

 

“You'd be in the mood if you'd won the bet.”

 

“No, I wouldn't, cuz I'm not in the mood.” Cartman swiped the fallen mug from the ground and took it back to the kitchen. “I'm tired,” he said over his shoulder.

 

But Kenny was belly down, sprawled out in front of the cast iron stove, pretending to be asleep all of a sudden. Stupid asshole.

 

Cartman ignored him in favor of the real bed, with the same mattress Ned and Jimbo had fucked on every night, beaten into a comfortable lump only years of use can bring.

 

Cartman fell asleep fast. When he woke up, the entire cabin smelled of the cast iron stove's smoldering ashes and Kenny was gone.

 

Cartman tried sitting up, but his arm jerked back against the headboard.

 

“Huh?”

 

He was handcuffed to the bed.

 

“Kenny!” he shouted, struggling against his bonds. “Ey! Kenny! You asshole, what did you...”

 

Kenny walked in from the kitchen, nonchalantly holding a new mug of coffee, like he got interrupted reading the newspaper. “Cut that out, you'll cut up your wrists,” he chastised, and stood beside the bed.

 

Cartman's face turned red as a tomato. “Let me go!”

 

“Come on, relax,” Kenny said. He set his coffee on the nightstand and left to get a chair from the table which Cartman had been cleaning the shotgun at. He put the chair next to the bed, sat down, and picked up his coffee.

 

Cartman seethed and pulled at his cuffs again. “This is not fucking cool!”

 

“Shut up,” Kenny said. “I brought home the bacon today. You know how it goes.”

 

Cartman slumped against the headboard. He looked down at the bed, refusing to meet Kenny's eyes anymore. Ever since they were kids, they always had to have some kind of elaborate wager to entertain themselves with. And, well, the end of the world was pretty boring – so the stakes were just that much higher.

 

“Fine,” Cartman surrendered. “I fucking hate you, though.”

 

“Then be a better shot,” Kenny said, and downed the rest of his coffee.

 

He slid out of the chair, onto the bed, and straddled Cartman's hips. Cartman stared up at the ceiling while Kenny desecrated his uniform. He was practically naked in five seconds. Kenny kissed Cartman's saggy chest, licked through the gray curls there, and passed each of Cartman's nipples through the gap between his two front teeth.

 

The fire was out, and the cold from outside started leaking in through the walls. Cartman shivered beneath Kenny and clasped his cuffed hands around the top of the headboard. Kenny's ministrations intensified as his head drooped lower down Cartman's navel.

 

By now Cartman's dick could've slashed his restraints, if only he were flexible enough to fold himself in half. Instead, his erection bobbed against Kenny's grizzled chin, trapped beneath Kenny's chest.

 

“Hold up,” Kenny gasped. He pressed a quick kiss at the top of Cartman's pubes, then sat up to wipe his mouth and rake a hand through his hair.

 

“What?” Cartman jangled his cuffs. “Get back here!”

 

“Hold on,” Kenny said, and stood up. He padded across the room and retrieved the shotgun from the table.

 

“What are you doing with that?” Cartman demanded.

 

Kenny set the shotgun against the bedpost. He retrieved a chain from his shirt collar, and on it was a key. “I'm gonna let you go,” he said, “but if you move, I'll shoot you.”

 

Cartman shuddered. Kenny's voice had dropped two octaves, reminiscent of his old Mysterion timber. Ashamedly, Cartman melted at it every time. He nodded, lost for words.

 

Kenny unlocked his handcuffs. Cartman dropped his arms from the headboard with a sigh and rubbed his wrists. They were red and sore, bleeding at the joints.

 

Kenny picked the shotgun back up by the muzzle. “I said don't move.”

 

“Shit,” Cartman said. He put his hands back up on the headboard, even as his shoulders protested. “I'm too old for this.”

 

“Your erectile is functioning,” Kenny pointed out. He poked at Cartman's dick with the end of the gun.

 

“Don't fucking do that,” Cartman yelped.

 

“Fuck you,” Kenny said, “I do what I want.”

 

“Shut up!”

 

“You shut up!”

 

All of a sudden Cartman's head cracked back into the headboard.

 

Kenny lowered the butt of the gun and turned Cartman's jaw to assess his new wound.

 

“That's for shooting me in the face,” Kenny said.

 

“Alright,” Cartman coughed. “Jesus, alright!” Kenny let his chin drop.

 

“You're gonna listen to me,” Kenny said. “You're not gonna move, and you're gonna listen. You want my cock? Answer me!”

 

“Screw off,” Cartman yelled. But Kenny raised the gun again, and he relented - “Yes! Yes, is that it? Yeah, I want your cock, Daddy, whatever – just don't fucking kill me!”

 

Kenny hit him again. “Don't be a smartass.”

 

Cartman wheezed. “Then just – fuck me already.”

 

“I will,” Kenny said, “with this gun. So don't move, or I'll shoot up your asshole.”

 

“Are you kidding me?”

 

Kenny reached over the nightstand for the handcuffs again.

 

Cartman gripped Kenny's wrist. “Okay! Don't lock me up again. I'll let you do it, psycho.”

 

Kenny smiled, and removed his hand. He lowered his head to Cartman's in an abrupt expression of intimacy, so that their lips brushed together. Then he slid off the bed and sat in the chair again.

 

“Get on your knees.”

 

Cartman obliged unwillingly. His pants were already folded around his ankles.

 

Kenny brought the chair up, supporting one knee on its seat and his other knee on the bed. He slung the shotgun over his back and let it hang off his chest, then leaned over Cartman's backside.

 

The gun swung cold against Cartman's thighs. He dropped his head as Kenny breached his asshole with a thin finger. Cartman couldn't help but moan at the uncomfortable intrusion scratching him dry. His heart raced with the knowledge of what was yet to come.

 

“Please,” he said.

 

Kenny crooked his finger in contemplation; Cartman never begged.

 

“You don't – you don't have to do this. I'll do anything you want, Kenny.”

 

“No take-backs,” Kenny said, and added a second finger. “This is what I want.”

 

Cartman screeched. He gripped the sheets beneath him and swallowed any complaint. Kenny was right – that was the rule – and if the army had taught Cartman anything, it was most rules were breakable, except the ones that get you killed. Their third rule was, don't do anything you wouldn't have done to yourself.

 

“You're tight as fuck,” Kenny said, scissoring him now. “Don't make this worse for yourself.”

 

Cartman made himself relax. He faced worse in Canada, He was stuck in a regiment with Stan Marsh for two years. He killed a gray bear. He was Special Ops. He was married to Kyle. He killed President Fascist Jew Bitch in front of Kyle, ended the American-Canadian nuclear war and his marriage at once. He could take a shotgun up the ass. And Kenny knew it too.

 

“Ready or not,” Kenny said. He took out his hand. Cartman's distended asshole pulsated at the absence.

 

Kenny brought the shotgun around and clicked the safety off. Braicing one hand on Cartman's back, he kept his other hand around the trigger and guided the double-barrel muzzle between Cartman's ass cheeks.

 

Cartman spread his legs as Kenny pushed the cold metal in at an angle. The corner of the muzzle was tucked under Cartman's asshole. Kenny dug around until he could force the other side in too. Cartman whimpered sharply at the jabbing motions, then loudly groaned once the whole double girth was fit inside of him.

 

Once he opened his mouth he couldn't stop verbalizing about the huge width shoved into his ass. He was beyond words and made low, keening moans, swaying his hips back and forth in an attempt to disperse the discomfort locked within his whole pelvis.

 

“God,” Kenny sighed, no doubt marveling at the sight of Cartman's stretched, quivering asshole. “God damn it, I'm going in, okay?”

 

Cartman struggled to speak real words. “Fuck, Ken, go-ohhh....”

 

Kenny pushed the muzzle in deeper once Cartman had said his name. It burned like a hot iron. Cartman's hips were going to split in half. But Kenny didn't stop. Cartman felt the gun pierce deeper and deeper, and his body instinctively fought against each unmerciful thrust.

 

“I can't do this,” he said.

 

Kenny ignored Cartman's hysterical plea; half the muzzle was up his ass now, and finally encountered resistance. Kenny prodded Cartman's prostate.

 

“Haaagh!”

 

Cartman's entire body seized. He squeezed his eyes shut against the pain, instinctively writhing around the unnatural object inside of him. It felt like the biggest shit of his life in reverse.

 

“I'm passing out,” he gasped. “Kenny, I'm passing out.”

 

“No you aren't. Focus, come on, that's it.”

 

Cartman focused. He forgot about his body and his stuffed asshole and stilled; it was a detachment mechanism he learned in active duty.

 

After a few seconds, Kenny shifted behind him, but Cartman tensed up in alarm. “Wait!”

 

Kenny frowned. “Cartman, I told you -”

 

“Seriously, shut the fuck up,” Cartman ordered. His voice was no longer reedy or desperate, but hardened with intent. He twisted around in bed and watched the front door of the cabin over Kenny's shoulder.

 

Kenny followed his gaze, knowing not to speak when Cartman got this way.

 

Cartman listened. The frost was crunching with untrained footsteps. Somebody was outside the cabin.

 

Cartman pulled Kenny down flat against the bed. “Someone's out there,” he whispered.

 

Kenny looked at Cartman from the corner of his eye and nodded imperceptibly.

 

With nothing else solid to bite on, Cartman picked up Kenny's forearm and dug his teeth into the line of bone. Kenny grimaced but took the pain as Cartman started pushing the shotgun out of his asshole. He broke out in a cold sweat and muffled his cries of pain into Kenny's flesh.

 

He was halfway done – a quarter of the muzzle out – when the front door banged against its three locks and deadbolt. They were out of time. Kenny rolled on top of Cartman, acting as a human sheild and blanketing Cartman's erotic, tortured sounds.

 

Cartman's face was hidden under Kenny now and he couldn't see. But Kenny kept watch above him, intently staring at the door, not even sparing a glance at his knife sitting on the nightstand.

 

The cabin's windows were all opaque, painted black. Kenny couldn't see out as much as their assailant couldn't see in. But he followed the sound of their footsteps creaking along the porch.

 

Cartman was still working with determination. Unbidden tears leaked from his eyes. He wasn't going to be able to sit for at least two weeks, and was definitely getting a hemorrhoid out of this, if he even lived.

 

Something heavy tapped against the windowpane. Cartman bore down with one final push – yelling, as it was inevitable – and the shotgun slid free in perfect time.

 

Kenny rolled to the ground, picked the shotgun up off the bed, and fired at the window. The glass shattered and a familiar man shrieked before dropping. Behind Kenny, Cartman slobbered into the mattress, blood leaking out of his ass.

 

Reluctantly, Kenny rose and stepped away from Cartman to step over the windowsill. Tweek Tweak laid crumpled on the porch next to a fallen handgun.

 

Kenny kicked the gun away. It skittered down the porch steps into the frost. He scanned the surrounding treeline for anybody else, then looked back at Tweek. The man was squirming in blood, clutching feebly at the bullet in his shoulder. His eyes were sunken in his gray face, zombified by withdrawal symptoms.

 

“Coffee,” he spluttered. “I need – my fucking – coffee -”

 

“Shit,” Kenny said. He jumped through the broken window, back inside the cabin, and ran to Cartman. “Tweek's here for the coffee!”

 

“My ass,” Cartman sobbed, “my asshole...”

 

“I know,” Kenny said. “I know, I'm sorry.” He took his knife from the nightstand, carried Cartman to the bathroom, and shut him inside with the blade.

 

Kenny reloaded, stepped over the broken window past Tweek who was dying, and walked down the porch. He looked down. The handgun was gone.

 

Kenny aimed the shotgun at the trees, and crouched in a slow circle. He saw a lump of shadows too solid to be foliage and too large to be animal, and fired at it.

 

Craig dodged by rolling into the bush and fired two rounds in Kenny's direction. Kenny dropped to the ground and crawled forward.

 

Craig burst out of the brush, shooting like a maniac. Kenny hopped to his feet and returned fire. Craig went down with a splatter of blood and grotesque scream.

 

Kenny stood over Craig's body as silence immediately returned. That was the strangest thing about the mountains – how the quiet always came back so quick.

 

Except Kenny's ears were ringing, so he didn't hear the sound of Tweek pulling himself up and retrieving another pistol from his vest.

 

Kenny bent over to inspect Craig's body. This position, combined with Tweek's low trajectory, would've sent a bullet right up Kenny's asshole. Kenny finally noticed Tweek out of his peripheral vision as the shot broke the silence.

 

But the bullet missed its mark. Kenny turned around completely, feeling his ass to make sure it was intact. When he looked back up at Tweek, he found Cartman standing on the porch instead, naked, woozy, and bleeding out of his butt. He held Kenny's knife in his hand but it was covered in blood. Tweek was at his feet with a slit throat.

 

“I need to lie down,” he said.

 

Kenny raced up the porch steps and caught Cartman before he fell.

 

“It's okay now,” Kenny told him. “Cartman, holy shit. You saved my life.” For Kenny, this wasn't a quantitative statement, but a qualitative one.

 

“Whatever.” Cartman was pale as a ghost.

 

“Let's go inside.”

 

Kenny laid Cartman on the bed and cleaned the blood off of him; didn't bother with clothes, because Cartman was still bleeding, and covered him with blankets instead. Kenny used their last blanket to cover the broken window, and restarted the cast iron stove fire. Then he went into the kitchen, drank some more meth coffee, and finally made rabbit stew. While the stew cooked, he went outside, gathered Tweek and Craig's corpses, covered them with dry pine, and set it all ablaze.

 

He stood there until the fire quickened to a healthy flame, and over the smoke saw something in the distance. He retrieved Cartman's binoculars and ran back out. The black mass on the horizon focused into the shape of a quadrupedal animal. It was large and strong with gray fur.

 

Kenny grabbed the shotgun and held it against his shoulder. He lined up his sights, but paused in pulling the trigger, and eventually lowered the gun.

 

The gray bear lifted its head, finally noticing him, and flicked its ears before turning to jog away. Kenny let it go, and swore to never tell Cartman what he saw.

 

When he came back inside the cabin was marginally warmer and the stew was finished. Now Kenny could complete their final rule, rule four – make dinner. You shoot, you bag, you fuck, and you eat. Up in the mountains, they had to live by some sort of schedule, and this was the best they'd come up with.

 

Kenny set a bowl of stew and a mug of Tweak Bros. Coffee on the nightstand. Cartman was sound asleep. Kenny lifted the blankets, rolled him onto his side, and checked his asshole. It was terribly puckered and damaged, but the bleeding had stopped. Kenny dressed Cartman in a shirt and long johns, then gently shook him awake.

 

“Hey. Eric. Time to eat. Look, I know you're pissed. Wake up. I cooked the rabbit. I got ya some meth. Come on, sit up.”

 

Cartman finally opened his eyes. “I can't fucking sit up, you cocksucker.”

 

“Oh,” Kenny said. He took the bowl of stew in his hands. “Well – here -”

 

He held the spoon out above Cartman's mouth. Cartman complied in being fed but refused to look away from the ceiling. His cheeks were red with embarrassed rage.

 

“I'm never doing that again,” he said. “I'm going to go get Tweek and Craig's corpses and shove them both up your asshole headfirst.”

 

“Ok,” Kenny said, offering another spoonful.

 

“I'm gonna find a katana, and slice your taint in half.”

 

Kenny gave him a sip of coffee, then some more stew, and Cartman grumbled in between. This went on until the bowl and mug were both empty. Cartman wasn't as cold to the touch anymore, or constantly wincing in pain, so Kenny laid beside him.

 

They made out for what felt like an hour. Eventually, Kenny crawled down the bed, divested Cartman's long johns, and spread his legs.

 

Cartman hissed, knees twitching against the instinct to shut his legs. Kenny lapped against Cartman's abused asshole, dipped his tongue inside, and ate Cartman out

 

After all, it was the asshole that saved his life.

 

**Author's Note:**

> this is me openly trying to be weird now. i will write stuff closer to canon in the future, but came up with this stupid image and had to do it. we all like to shove things up cartman's ass right? 
> 
> i came up with this backstory in my head, but didn't want to devote time to it: 
> 
> -cartman loves kyle  
> -sheila starts the war against canada   
> -cartman joins the army to impress kyle  
> -gets promoted to special ops   
> -sheila becomes president, corrupt and totalitarian cuz shes a huge bitch  
> -cartman is tasked with assassinating her for the sake of the country   
> -kyle divorces cartman for stan and bcuz of his mom  
> -somehow america dissolves into chaos  
> -ned and jimbo go off grid and leave their cabin to their favorite nephew kenny   
> -kenny and cartman shack up  
> -eventually they stole tweak bros coffee to get high 
> 
> initially i wanted to write a kenny/cartman vs stan/kyle standoff but thought people dying over drugged coffee was funnier. i might flesh out this universe i inadvertently made, maybe not. please comment.


End file.
